


Refuge

by sorrowfulcheese



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/pseuds/sorrowfulcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the DARBB, based on <a href="http://celestsadira.tumblr.com/post/135359339450/my-entry-for-the-dragon-age-big-bang-please-read">art by celestsadira.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

                      Hawke sighed and let the door fall shut behind her, let her shoulders sag in the refuge of her Hightown home.

                      _Refuge._

                      What a simple thing it was, yet what a privilege; too many in Kirkwall had no real safety, and those that had it could find it torn away from them in the blink of an eye. She had stumbled into it by sheer luck— 

                      "Welcome home, messere," Bodahn greeted her. Pale eyes searched her face in query; Hawke managed a smile. "I hope all is well," Bodahn went on. "A letter came for you today. I've left it on your desk as usual. I hope you don't mind, but I paid the wee urchin a couple of silver for his trouble." He flashed a rueful smile. "He looked as though he could use a meal or two."

                      "You did the right thing, Bodahn," Hawke assured him, and made her way past the foyer. "Good evening, Sandal," she said.

                      "Hallo," Sandal replied. "Enchantment?"

                      "Not tonight, Sandal, thank you."

                      Hawke stopped beside the table where her correspondence was always kept. The envelope was made of lovely thick paper of a creamy colour, and the seal on the back—

                      Hawke leaned toward the light to see better, and squinted. The seal appeared to be a bird of some type. She didn't recognise the house; probably yet another invitation to some obscure noble's impoverished estate, another attempt to associate with Hightown's wealthier families, to raise a fallen clan in the eyes of the elite.

                      _Blast them all to the Void._

                      A soft rustle sounded above her and Hawke looked up. Anders leaned over the balustrade and smiled when Hawke's eyes met his. She returned the smile. "When did you get home?" she asked softly.

                      "Not long ago," he assured her. "I've just washed up. Orana roasted a comically oversized leg of lamb tonight. Are you hungry?"

                      "Famished," Hawke agreed. She looked down once more at the envelope.

                      "Looks important," said Anders. "Open it, and remove the suspense." 

                      Despite her mood, Hawke chuckled. She broke the seal on the envelope and withdrew the heavy paper inside. The writing was neat and precise, with no extraneous flourishes. Despite the quality of the letter and the envelope—and of the quill used to write, as there were no rough letters or scratches on the paper—it was not, in fact, a letter from a noble.

                      " _My Dear Hawke_ [she read aloud],

                      _I must thank you again for your assistance in that rather unfortunate situation involving Nuncio and the Crows. I do not generally care to draw others into the affairs of my former employers, but your actions made it amply clear to me that you are a woman more than capable of dealing with such people._

_It is with this in mind that I feel I must return the favour in my own fashion. Word has come to me that a trap is being laid for you in Kirkwall, set up by the templars themselves, with your own brother as a hostage and bait, in order to trick you into revealing yourself as an apostate and giving them an excuse to seize you and your estate. I cannot reveal my source for this information, lest I place a friend in danger, but I assure you that this information is sound._

_I should not like to see you waste money on a ransom, however, when I can provide you with information that will let you bypass that procedure. If you will meet me at the location marked below, an hour past midnight tonight, I will be happy not only to provide this information but assist you in ridding the city of a few more corrupt templars—if you wish, that is._

_I hope you will consider my offer, and I anticipate meeting you tonight in order to discuss a plan of attack, so to speak. Until then, I remain,_

_Most Sincerely,_

_Zevran Arainai"_

                      Below this was a small but very legible hand-drawn map indicating a spot not far out of the city, near the foothills of Sundermount.

                      Hawke looked up at Anders again. He raised his fine eyebrows at her. "What do you think?" she asked.

                      Anders shook his head. "I don't know, love," he said honestly. "He seemed quite a pleasant fellow when we met him at the Dalish camp, his ill-advised flirting aside."

                      Hawke bit her lower lip to prevent herself from smiling. "True," she agreed. "But he is still an assassin. And we don't know him well."

                      "That's true." Anders watched her a moment, thoughtful. "I'll go with you," he went on, "just in case. Even if he doesn't wish harm on you, the Guild that's hunting him won't show you the same favour."

                      Hawke's stomach snarled in annoyance. "Maker, I'm starved," she said with a sigh.

                      "We can eat in the kitchen," Anders suggested. "No sense in having the table set for just the two of us."

                      Hawke nodded slowly, set the letter down on the table, then picked it up again and re-read it. Anders descended the stairs quietly and stood beside her, waiting. "It could be a trap," Hawke murmured.

                      "It could be, yes. But I wouldn't put it past the blighted templars to have cooked up such a scheme."

                      Hawke looked sharply up at him. "Do you really think they would? I should think they've got better things to worry about, don't you?"

                      Anders made a face. "I wouldn't put it past them," he repeated. "If they managed somehow to subdue you and drag you to the Gallows, it would strike a blow against the other mages. Quell any thoughts of rebellion. Break spirits, and all that."

                      Hawke sighed, shook her head. "I suppose we can go and see what information he's got for us, if any."

                      "But supper first," Anders said firmly. He took her elbow and guided her to the kitchen, where Orana was happily humming to herself while preparing vegetables for the next day's meals. She turned to see them and bowed first to Hawke, then to Anders, and without a word she busied herself putting two plates together. Hawke and Anders sat down at the table and Orana served them lamb and potatoes and a medley of fresh vegetables.

                      "Thank you, Orana," Hawke said.

                      "Is there anything else I can get for you, mistress?" Orana wondered. She still could not look Hawke directly in the eyes, but she was getting better.

                      "I think we're fine here, thank you."

                      Orana returned to her work, and while Hawke and Anders ate she resumed her soft humming. When they had finished, she swept their plates away and began to wash them.

                      Anders stood and reached for Hawke's hand, led her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "Where are you taking me?" she wondered with amusement.

                      "It's still early," he told her. "You can get a couple of hours' sleep before we go traipsing off after this Antivan fellow."

                      Hawke allowed Anders to guide her to the bed; she sat and Anders knelt at her feet, gently removed her boots and set them aside. He helped her unbuckle her chestplate and remove her gauntlets, and Hawke rolled to lie on the bed, still clothed. Anders climbed up and crawled around to spoon comfortably behind her.

                      "Thank you," Hawke said.

                      "Mm," Anders said against the back of her neck. "For what?"

                      "For taking care of me the way you do."

                      He chuckled softly, wrapped his arms tighter around her middle. "You don't have to thank me for that, Hawke." He kissed her hair. "We take care of one another, don't we?"

                      Hawke smiled and closed her eyes, squirmed back against Anders' body. Warmed by the contact and comforted by his presence, she dozed.

                      Anders woke her shortly before midnight, and Hawke rolled to face him, slid her arms up and around his neck, kissed his mouth tenderly. He slid a hand down her body to rest on her hip and squeezed, affectionate.

                      "Do we have any time?" Hawke wondered hopefully.

                      "Not if we want to get there on time," was the rueful reply. "Maybe once we're back, if it's not too late."

                      "Or too early," Hawke sighed. "Let's go, then." She kissed him once more, sat up and stretched, and swung her legs to the floor. She donned her armour while Anders buckled on his boots and his heavy coat; they swung their staves to their backs and tiptoed down the stairs.

                      Bodahn met them in the foyer. "I hope you don't mind, mistress," he said quietly. "I overheard that you had an—engagement—tonight, and I took the liberty of asking Orana to pack a little something for you to take along. Just in case, you understand." He held out a package neatly-wrapped in brown paper.

                      Hawke smiled. "Thank you, Bodahn. You shouldn't have stayed up for this, though."

                      Bodahn shrugged his thick shoulders. "It's nothing," he said. "I like to make myself useful, you understand. You've done a lot for me and Sandal since we've been in Kirkwall, and I just—" He shook his head. "I can never repay you for Sandal's life," he said quickly. "So I do what I can."

                      She took the little bundle from him. "Get to bed, Bodahn," she said with mock sternness. "We may be out to all hours, and even you need sleep."

                      "Yes, mistress," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled with a hint of a smile. "Please be careful out there, the both of you." He inclined his torso to them, then straightened and hurried to open the mansion's front door for them.

                      Outside, Anders inhaled deeply and sighed, looked up at the sky, then down at Hawke; he smiled. "Let's go, then," he said, and in unison they stepped into the shadows and toward the city gates.

* * *

                      Carver Hawke slid through the darkness, as comfortable in it as he ever had been in the light. Darkspawn seemed to be able to hear just about any noise; he had learned quickly to move in silence despite his heavy armour.

                      Tonight, however, he was not hunting darkspawn.

                      _"Letter for you, mannie."_

_"Who from?" Carver didn't look up from his sword. It had gotten slightly nicked in the last battle, and he was attempting to smooth the rough bits along the edge._

_"How should I know?" Cowden thrust an envelope into his view. "I don't open your letters."_

_Carver glanced at the envelope; the writing was not Marian's. "Open it," he said. "Read it."_

_"Oh, aye, sir," said Cowden facetiously. "Shall I spell out the difficult words for you too?"_

_"Fuck off," Carver replied, amiable. "Read it."_

_Cowden snorted rudely, sat down next to Carver and carefully sliced the envelope open with his dagger. "Hm," he said. "It's from someone named Varric."_

_Carver frowned, let his sword rest across his knees. "Let me see that." He reached for the letter; Cowden held it away from him._

_"You told me to read it," he said with a wicked grin, "so I'll read it." Carver rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his sword. Cowden cleared his throat, held the letter in front of himself again, and began to read._

                      "Little Hawke—"

_Cowden laughed. "Does this Varric fellow know you at all? You're hardly little. Or is it a joke?"_

_"It's not a joke," Carver said grimly. "It's not to do with my size, either. Keep reading."_

_Cowden watched him a moment, then looked at the letter again._

                      "Little Hawke,

                      You need to come to Kirkwall, and fast. The templars have stepped up their campaign to expose your sister as a mage, and they've laid a trap to draw her out. They've told her that you've been charged with treason in Ferelden and that Fereldan soldiers are hunting you down to drag you back for a trial. You know how she's been since your mother passed—I can't convince her not to go after these idiots.

                      Send word that you're coming, and I'll wait for you outside the city, near the entrance that the Wardens use when they need in. I think that together we can maybe convince her that she's been duped—or at least we'll be able to make sure she gets out alive.

                      See you soon.

                      Varric"

_Cowden looked up at him. "What's this then?" Carver glared at his sword, shook his head. "Are you going to go?"_

_Carver clenched his jaw. "I can't," he said._

_"Of course you can. We're less than a day out from Kirkwall."_

_"This may already have happened," Carver told him. "What's the date on that letter?"_

_"No date."_

_"It may have already happened, in which case there's no sense in my going. And if it hasn't happened yet—"_

_Cowden folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. "She's your family, Hawke. You need to go."_

_Carver turned his head. Cowden's green eyes were serious. "She's the Champion of bloody Kirkwall," he said. "I'm pretty sure she can take care of herself." Cowden said nothing. "It's probably some sort of stupid ruse to get me to talk to her."_

_"Why wouldn't you talk to her?"_

_"I do talk to her," Carver snapped. "And I write her letters. But I have a responsibility—"_

_"Ah, bullshit," Cowden interrupted. "You can take time to make it to Kirkwall just to make sure all's well."_

_Carver scowled. "Trying to get rid of me, are you?"_

_Cowden chuckled. "No," he said. "But I see your face when you read her letters, and I know you care. Despite being a grumpy little shit." He leaned toward Carver, pushed him slightly with his shoulder._

_Carver rolled his eyes, pushed back and sat up straight. "I'm not grumpy," he said. "I'm a Grey Warden."_

_"I don't think the Joining changes your personality. You want me to go along?"_

_He considered a moment. They rarely had time alone together, and travelling for a bit would be nice. "No," he said at last. "No sense in two of us getting into trouble."_

_Cowden shrugged. "As you like," he said. "Go, take care of your Champion, and I'll cover for you. You're not on assignment now anyway, and Stroud's away to Wycome. You'll be back before anyone knows you've gone."_

                      And so he found himself alone on the road to Kirkwall, to save his idiot sister from bloody templars. She had grown up evading them; she knew all their tricks after years in Kirkwall. Why was Varric so afraid for her now? It didn't make sense.

                      It probably _was_ a trap for Marian. With his authority as a Grey Warden he could override templars' imperatives; under Meredith, however, the templars had always been _kill first, ask questions later_ , and he couldn't assume they had changed in the years since he'd left Kirkwall. He would probably have to fight them. And he would be reprimanded if Stroud found out the reason for his sudden absence.

                      This whole situation was utter rubbish and he cursed softly under his breath.

                      At least he would probably be able to vent some of his annoyance with his sword.

                      When at last the city walls came into his view Carver felt slightly queasy. He didn't like returning to Kirkwall; he'd never liked the city, and it had never felt like home to him. He had talked about the feeling with Cowden one night as they'd drowsed under the stars. Cowden had suggested that deep inside, Carver feared that if he returned to Kirkwall, he would never leave it—he felt the same way about Starkhaven, Cowden had confessed.

                      But he didn't have to go into Kirkwall, Carver reminded himself; he was to meet Varric outside the Wardens' concealed entrance. His path led toward the foothills of Sundermount, and in the side of the mountain was a small cave inside which was a small crack in the stone, which was itself the Wardens' entrance to Kirkwall via Darktown.

                      As he approached the cave, his head began to ring softly with the too-familiar song of the Blight; it was faint and cacophonous, the tune of a Grey Warden, not that of darkspawn. Carver frowned. Had Stroud somehow found out where he was headed? Had he sent a message to Wardens in Kirkwall, ordered them to apprehend Carver for desertion?

                      He shook his head. Stroud wouldn't do that—he would simply wait for Carver to return to Ansburg, and reprimand him then.

                      Carver drew his sword, listened intently. A shadow flickered nearby and he turned his head to see faint bluish light—

                      Merrill had used to create such orbs when they'd been in dark caves. So there was a mage nearby, _and_ a Grey Warden.

                      _Fuck._

                      "Over there," he heard a woman say, and the blue light expanded, nearly blinded him. Carver flinched, raised a hand to shield his eyes.

                      " _Carver?_ "

                      "Get that out of my face, mage, or I'll cram it down your throat," Carver growled. The orb dimmed, rose higher, spread its light around, and Carver blinked to clear his vision as Anders and Marian were revealed in the shadows.

                      "Carver," Marian said, and strode swiftly to stand before him. "You're all right. How did you get away?"

                      "I just left," Carver said crossly. "We don't exactly need permission to go outside."

                      "But why would they let you out," she said, "if they wanted me to come after you?"

                      "Why would the bloody Wardens want you to hunt me down, Marian?"

                      She stared at him, uncomprehending. "Wardens?" she repeated. "I mean the templars."

                      "That's why I'm here," he said. "Because you're fool enough to believe this treason charge—"

                      "Treason?"

                      "What are you doing here, Carver?" Anders cut in. "Hawke got a letter that said you were being held for ransom."

                      Carver sheathed his sword. "I'm a bloody Grey Warden," he snapped. "Anyone who tries to take me hostage is going to lose a few limbs and then their property if—" He stopped. "You got a letter," he said. "From Varric?"

                      "No," Marian said. "Varric doesn't need to write me letters. It was from an Antivan fellow we ran across recently."

                      "I got a letter," Carver said slowly, "from Varric. Said that the templars were planning on setting up a trap for you and using me as bait."

                      "Someone's duped us all," Anders said unnecessarily.

                      "Whoever it is," Marian said grimly, "I'm going to have to kick some ass."

                      "I must offer my humblest apologies," said a smooth voice from the shadows. "This little gathering is my doing." An elf stepped into the orb's light and bowed to them. "I am Zevran Arainai, the Antivan of whom your sister has spoken."

                      "Why did you write those letters?" Marian demanded. "Who are you working for?" She grabbed her staff from her back and struck the ground with the blade end, sending sparks into the sky.

                      Hands up, palms outward defensively, Zevran smiled. "As I said, I offer my apologies for the ruse. The situation is more complex than I was able to explain in correspondence. You see, I could not trust that my letters would not be intercepted, and I could not tell the truth lest I put someone in more danger."

                      "More danger than you're in right now?" Anders said sharply.

                      "Yes," Zevran replied, sober now. "A very dear friend of mine has found herself in a—very difficult situation. She is not incapable, but circumstances have forced her to require more assistance than I can provide. Nor am I incapable, but the odds are against us both at this time and I fear I would not be able to help her alone."

                      "Why didn't you just say so?" Marian wondered. Her grip on her staff loosened slightly. "It wouldn't be the first time some stranger has asked me for help."

                      "And why would you want me there?" Carver said, suspicious. "It's a long way from Ansburg, and if my sister can help you—"

                      Zevran inclined his head. "The matter does have something to do with the Grey Wardens—"

                      "He's a Warden," Carver said, and swept his hand toward Anders.

                      "After a fashion," Anders said.

                      "As I said, it has something to do with the Grey Wardens, and your name in particular came up in conversation."

                      "I don't buy that," Carver replied. "There are Wardens everywhere in the bloody Free Marches. Why me, unless you wanted to get to my sister?"

                      "You were recommended to me," Zevran explained, "by my friend—who is a Warden herself."

                      That gave Carver pause. He knew most of the Wardens in the Free Marches, at least by sight if not by name, but he didn't know any women posted in or around Kirkwall. He looked at Marian, who watched Zevran intently, her eyes narrow. She shot a look at Carver, questioning. Carver shook his head slightly.

                      Marian took a step toward Zevran, stabbed the air in his direction with a gauntleted finger. "Spill the whole story," she said. "Tell us now and tell us everything, or we'll be heading back to the city and the world will be short an assassin."

                      Zevran did not flinch. Instead he pulled himself up to his full height, inhaled and exhaled, lowered his hands. "I will tell you everything," he said, "but my friend is in real danger and I should like to prevent any harm from coming to her."

                      "I will kill you," Marian informed him, "if you try anything."

                      "Naturally." Zevran grinned, teeth flashing white in the light from the orb above them. "Indeed, I will walk in the lead, so you will have no fear of a knife in your back."

                      "That isn't comforting," Carver grumbled.

* * *

                      Zevran led the three of them into the nearby cave. He was surprised and relieved that they all seemed to know how to move stealthily; perhaps this could get done quickly and painlessly, as Neria had hoped.

                      "So you wrote different letters to us," said Hawke. "To lure me and my brother out here."

                      "Yes," he admitted. "To be honest, I didn't know your brother was not in fact in Kirkwall, else I might have attempted to contact a different Warden."

                      "If your friend is a Warden," Carver cut in, "she should have known I work out of Ansburg."

                      "Indeed she does," Zevran agreed. "But the last information she had indicated you were near Kirkwall, and so she instructed me to contact you as well as your sister. As it happens, you were not far away, so all is well.”

                      "Anders is a Warden," Hawke pointed out. "Why wouldn't you just contact him?"

                      "I had no idea that he was connected to you in any way," Zevran explained patiently. "And in any case, is he not supposed to be in Amaranthine?" He glanced over his shoulder; Anders' eyes narrowed slightly.

                      "How did you know that?"

                      Zevran flashed his best enigmatic smile. "I am an assassin, not an ignorant man." He stepped around a cluster of stalagmites and continued on his way. He hoped they weren't too late. It shouldn't be too late.

                      _Maker, please don't let it be too late._

                      "What kind of trouble is your friend in, exactly?" asked Hawke. "And how do you want us to help?"

                      He considered a moment. “My friend is an elf, and a mage,” he said simply.

                      “Dalish?” Hawke asked. “Or is she an apostate?”

                      “Dalish mages are inherently apostates, according to the Chantry, no?” Zevran smiled faintly. “But no, she is not Dalish. She was raised in the Circle Tower in Ferelden, and was recruited to fight with the late King Cailan’s army during the Blight. After the Archdemon was defeated, she chose not to return to the Circle.” He glanced back. “In thanks for her service, the templars did not immediately hunt her down.”

                      “How kind of them,” Anders muttered.

                      “Indeed.” Zevran squeezed himself through a narrow archway and into a tight tunnel. He was forced to half-walk, half-crawl through the tunnel; the others, taller and larger than he, made noises of discomfort as they followed. They all emerged into a broad, open cavern, and Zevran took a moment to stretch and shake out his arms and legs.

                      “Let’s not do that again,” Carver said irritably.

                      “A necessary evil, I assure you,” Zevran replied.

                      “Go on,” Hawke said with a gesture. “The templars are hunting your friend—why now?”

                      “Not templars.” Zevran reached up to smooth his hair, turned to orient himself, and pointed to one end of the cavern. He headed in that direction, and continued talking. “It is the Seekers of Truth, now, who are hunting her.”

                      “Seekers of Truth?” Carver said. “Never heard of them.”

                      “Most haven’t,” Zevran agreed. “They are few in number, but they are the power that keeps the templars in check. Rather, they are _supposed_ to keep the templars in check. I do not think that they have been doing their job particularly well.”

                      Anders snorted rudely. “You're not wrong.”

                      “In any case,” Zevran went on, “my friend has no interest in the politics of the Seekers, and does not wish to become involved with them.”

                      “If she’s stayed in hiding this long,” Hawke said, “why is she suddenly in danger?”

                      “The Seekers are more powerful than templars,” Anders said quietly. “Not everyone knows much about them, or even that they exist, but they’re supposedly incorruptible. And supposedly they can’t be possessed by demons.”

                      “Yes,” Zevran said. “So it is said. The rumours of their strengths are not exaggerated. She has encountered them before and they are formidable warriors, steadfast in their faith—“

                      “And more than happy to halt any interference in the Maker’s plan.” The voice was a man’s, unfamiliar, with a slight Orlesian accent, and Zevran’s blood turned to ice.

                      _Maker, don’t let them have found her yet._

                      “Seeker,” he said aloud. “It is good to see you again.”

                      The Seeker stepped out of the shadows, and behind him Zevran saw glimmers of armour and weapons. “Is it?” the man wondered, and looked Zevran up and down. “You seem tired, assassin. A little more running than you’re used to, hm?” He glanced past Zevran to the Hawke siblings, and Anders. “And you’ve finally brought reinforcements. Rather an interesting lot—scraped them up in Darktown, did you?” He laughed, a caustic sound.

                      There was a sharp whistle as Anders whipped his staff from his back and pointed the crystal end at the Seeker. “What’s your purpose with this mage?” he demanded.

                      “The Maker’s plan, apparently,” Hawke said drily as she drew her own staff to the ready. “Or so he says.”

                      “Be careful, Hawke,” Anders warned her.

                      “Hawke,” repeated the Seeker, and narrowed his eyes at her. “Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall?”

                      “Depends who you talk to,” Hawke said with a shrug.

                      “How delightful. We are seeking the Champion as well.” Behind the Seeker several sets of armour clinked softly. “And what have we here—another Grey Warden? You oughtn’t to be sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, boy.”

                      Carver seemed to swell, catlike, and he lowered his head threateningly. “You know the Chantry has no jurisdiction over Wardens,” he said.

                      “True,” said the Seeker, “but if a rogue Warden interferes with our duties, we can hardly be faulted for eliminating him.”

                      “You can try,” Carver growled, and his massive blade slid swiftly from its sheath.

                      The other Seekers pressed forward, spilled around their commander, their swords and shields up. “Take the Champion alive,” he ordered them. “Kill the others. We will find the Warden afterward.”

                      Zevran spun his blades in his palms, gripped them tight and leaped into the fray. Carver’s sword drew blood almost immediately. Hawke and Anders moved in tandem, casting supportive spells first and then flawlessly bouncing magic off shields and the cavern walls to strike the Seekers with astounding precision. It would have been beautiful simply to watch, he thought, as he drove a blade through the spine of a hapless Seeker. But he had his own duties to attend. As his target fell, Zevran withdrew his blade and spun to block a sword about to cleave his head.

                      The Seekers were, as he had said, formidable—but as the scent of blood and offal filled the cavern, Zevran knew that Neria had chosen well when she had told him to contact the Hawke siblings for their assistance. Body after body fell amidst the sounds of clashing metal, of the crackling of electricity and ice. Hawke and Anders kept their backs to one another as they moved, light-footed, in circles to take turns casting healing spells and devastating offensive magic. Carver was a silent blur; neither his body nor his blade remained still for a moment.

                      At last the four of them stood facing one another in the cavern, splashed liberally with blood but for the most part unharmed; all the Seekers, including their commander, lay lifeless on the cold stone.

                      “A shame,” Zevran said quietly, “that they feel they cannot leave well enough alone.” He smiled wanly at Hawke, whose eyes were still hot with battle. “But I must thank you once again for your assistance. As you can see, I could not have done this alone.”

                      “You knew we were going to face Seekers,” Anders snapped, “and you tricked us all into doing your dirty work for you.”

                      “I requested _Hawke’s_ assistance,” Zevran reminded him sharply. “And she agreed to help, even when my ruse was revealed.” He wiped his blades, sheathed them at his hips.

                      “Is that it?” Carver wondered. “You just wanted us to come and kill a bunch of Seekers for you? You realise this will bring the Chantry down on my sister, don’t you?”

                      “And Anders,” Hawke added. Carver made a dismissive noise. “Kirkwall isn’t exactly the most forgiving city in Thedas.”

                      “The Seekers,” Zevran assured her, “have no interest whatsoever in your Anders. And since none of these are alive to tell the tale, they cannot report the evening’s adventure to anyone, so there is no way this can be attributed to any of you.” He looked at them all in turn. “I wish I could stay and thank you properly, but I dare not leave my friend alone any longer than necessary. Messere Hawke, I will send payment to make up for your lost time, and your efforts.” He bowed.

                      “I’d like to meet this Grey Warden of yours,” Carver said quickly.

                      “As would I,” said Anders, as he swung his staff to his back.

                      “And me,” Hawke agreed. “See what we risked our lives for.”

                      “Then please,” Zevran said with another small bow. “Follow me.” Hawke walked with her staff in hand, and Carver and Anders trailed behind her as they followed him further into the labyrinthine cavern.

* * *

                      The fire was getting low, and the damp of the cave began to close in. Neria rolled to her knees, leaned on her staff for support, and stood. The effort was tiring, and she took a moment to catch her breath.

                      It was ridiculous that she could not simply use magic to make the fire blaze. On the other hand, she had no interest in setting the entire cave on fire. Still leaning on her staff she waddled slowly across the cave to the pile of wood that Zevran had left for her. She could only lift one piece at a time to feed the fire, and every step winded her. With her staff in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, she waddled back to the fire, dropped the wood into the middle of it, and sighed, exhausted. The flames licked up over the dry wood and once more the fire battled the damp and the dark.

                      “I will be happy, little one,” Neria murmured, “when you are finally out.” She patted her round belly and was gratified when a tiny foot pressed outward against her hand. “You will be too, no doubt.”

                      She heard the Song, then, muted and off-key: a Warden approaching. No, not a Warden—two of them. Their thoughts were jumbled, but not threatening. Still Neria gripped her staff and stepped away from the fire, into the darkness, just in case.

                      Zevran whistled, a short bird call that was an announcement that all was well, and Neria let her shoulders sag. She moved back toward the fire just as Zevran slipped into the cave. He crossed the space between them swiftly, slid his arms around her and kissed her. "Mi alma," he murmured. "You are well?"

                      "I'm fine," she told him. "Just tired." She frowned and touched his face. "You've been fighting."

                      "Yes," he said. "But perhaps no more for a while." He straightened and turned to the others, his arm supporting her around her middle. "Hawke," he said, "I would introduce to you Neria Surana."

                      Hawke stared a moment. "Neria Surana," she repeated. "The Hero of Ferelden?"

                      "The same," Zevran laughed. "Slayer of darkspawn and the Archdemon, arlessa of Amaranthine, and soon to be the mother of my child." He rested a hand on Neria's belly, and she put her hand over his. "My darling, this is Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, as you requested. And this is her brother, the Grey Warden."

                      "I know a great deal about Carver Hawke. And Anders," Neria said sternly. "What trouble have you been stirring up since you ran away from Amaranthine?"

                      "I didn't run away," Anders protested sheepishly. "I came to Kirkwall to help a friend. And I just—happened to stay." His eyes flicked to look at Hawke, then back at Neria.

                      Neria sighed, looked up at Zevran again. "Well?" she said.

                      "We encountered the Seekers not far from here," he told her soberly. "This group, at least, will trouble us no more."

                      "There are others," Neria said. "There will always be others."

                      "I'm sorry," Carver interrupted. "Why would Seekers of Truth be hunting for the Hero of Ferelden?"

                      Neria shook her head. "They've approached me more than once, tried to convince me to start a new Inquisition in Thedas." She saw Anders' physical reaction to this news from the corner of her eye. "I have refused each time, and lately they seem almost to want to force me into it. They think that because I'm a mage I can influence all the mages in Thedas, stop any chance at rebellion." She inhaled and sighed again, smiled faintly. "I don't want to."

                      "Why not?" Anders asked, suspiciously.

                      She looked at him a long moment. "My life in the Circle was not my own. My life among the Wardens was not my own. In all of Thedas I am seen only as a tool, a weapon, something to be kept and used. Mages are people and deserve to have lives of their own." She looked down at her belly. "This one deserves to have a life of her own."

                      Zevran squeezed her gently and she smiled up at him.

                      "Why did you come to Kirkwall if you're trying to avoid templars and Seekers?" Carver asked.

                      "It does seem a little counterintuitive," Hawke agreed.

                      Zevran laughed. "Where else does the boat land," he wondered, "without going so far east as Ostwick?" He shrugged. "We are on our way to Hasmal."

                      "I was born there," Neria explained. "My research has shown that I still have family in the area. We are hoping to find refuge there until the little one arrives. Or after, depending on how far we get."

                      Hawke shook her head. "You could have told us all this from the beginning," she said to Zevran. "You didn't have to cook up such a scheme."

                      "I need to keep in practice," Zevran said with a grin, and sobered. "But I truly did not want to reveal our location. Just in case. Kirkwall templars are not known for their kindness."

                      Anders sighed, looked at Hawke. Hawke looked up at him, then back at Neria.

                      "I suppose we're done here," she said. "Be well, Hero. Anders, let's go." She turned without another word and after a miniscule pause Anders turned to follow.

                      Carver stayed behind a moment. "If you like," he said, "I can report that I found your body in the Deep Roads or something. Keep them off your back for a while."

                      Neria smiled again. "If you wish," she said. "But I let it be thought that I was already hearing my Calling, so those who even think of me no doubt assume I'm dead already."

                      Carver nodded, saluted her, and turned to follow his sister and Anders out of the cave.

                      Zevran looked down at her. "Have you eaten?" he wondered.

                      "There's no room in here," she replied, and poked her belly. The baby pushed out with her foot again, and Neria lost her breath. "I need to sit."

                      Solicitous, Zevran supported her as she lowered herself to her bedroll beside the fire. He rubbed her back and her shoulders while she concentrated on breathing. She leaned back against him and he wrapped his arms around her. He began to sing softly, an Antivan lullaby and, thus soothed, Neria closed her eyes and listened. The baby settled down almost immediately, and Neria's breath came more easily.

                      All was well, and their tiny family was safe.

* * *

                      It was dawn before they fell once more into bed, this time fully undressed and exhausted. Anders didn't like to see Hawke so weary. He drew the blankets over both of them, pulled her close and kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair away from her face.

                      "If I needed to run," Hawke murmured, "would you go with me?"

                      "I would follow you to the Void, Hawke," Anders replied softly. "What if I needed to run? Would you go with me?"

                      She opened her eyes and looked at him in the dim light from the window. "I would drag you to the Void to keep you safe." She kissed his nose and snuggled close and was soon fast asleep. Anders lay awake with his thoughts a long time before fatigue overtook him and he, too, slept.

* * *

                      Cowden hadn't broken camp; the fire had been banked and simple wards set out to alert him of intruders. Carver smiled and stepped easily past the wards, unfastened the tent flap and crawled inside. Cowden inhaled and looked sleepily up at him. "You're back," he said. "How's your sister?"

                      "Fine," Carver said. "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

                      "How could it have? You weren't here to make it happen." Cowden watched him through half-lidded eyes as Carver unfastened his armour and stripped down to his smalls. He lifted the blanket and Carver needed no coaxing to climb beneath it. Cowden squirmed to entangle his arms and legs with Carver's and in just a few moments his breathing was once again deep and slow. Carver watched his face for a while.

                      Here, in the middle of nowhere, in an oft-mended tent and on a well-worn bedroll, he was at ease. He was himself, in his own world, with his own role within it, and all was well.

                      Carver slept.


End file.
